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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 









SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

AND OTHER POEMS OF 

EASTER WEEK 



I 



SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

AND OTHER POEMS OF 
EASTER WEEK 



BY 

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER 



NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 

MCMXDC 



COPYRIGHT 19 19 BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 



APR -7 I3Z0 



PRINTED IN AMERICA 



©CU566387 

0\o . f 



EDITOR'S NOTE 

This book is a sacred obligation to one who 
broke her heart over Ireland. Dora Sigerson in 
her last few weeks of life, knowing full well that 
she was dying, designed every detail of this little 
volume — the dedication to the tricolour, intro- 
duction, and the order in which the poems are 
printed. Any profit that may arise from the sale 
of the book will be devoted, as are all the copy- 
rights of the author, to a monument which she 
herself sculptured with a view to its erection 
over the graves of the " Sixteen Dead Men " 
when circumstances place their ashes in Glans- 
nevin. The editor is indebted to the courtesy 
of the George H. Doran Company, New York, 
for permission to reprint eight poems from " The 
Sad Years," by Dora Sigerson. 

5 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEDICATION THE TRICOLOR 9 

INTRODUCTION THE LION II 

SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 15 

THE SACRED FIRE 17 

CONSCRIPTION 1 8 

SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 19 

IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 22 

A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 25 

THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 29 

THE WILD BEAST 31 

THE WILD GEESE 34 

THE QUEEN 36 

THE CHOICE 39 

THE OLD SONG 42 

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 47 

THE TREE UPROOTED 52 



6o 
63 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

the wreath: "easter, i917 54 

the prisoner 55 

ourselves alone 57 
Kathleen's lover 

THE FOE 

EMPIRE BUILDING 65 

LOUD SHOUT THE FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR 72 

THE HILL-SIDE MEN 75 

THE STAR 77 

"TELLING THE BEES" 79 

THE STORY WITHOUT END 
THE DEAD SOLDIER 



8l 
84 



TO 
THE TRICOLOUR 

ABOUT this time there was let loose a great tumult in the 
city. Fire and battle held Dublin for about a week, and 
then from out of it all, above the crash of falling houses 
and the roar of guns, over the crackling flames rose the tricol- 
our, and for a few mad days it shone into the hearts of the 
people. 

And then a wounded prisoner of war, by the name of James 
Connolly, was slain, and so was disbanded the wonderful Citizen 
Army which had arisen from the awful conditions of bad hous- 
ing and miserable wages so prevalent in Ireland. 

So Labour was shot down because it dared to be discontented 
with its fortunes. 

At the same time Pearse, the idealist, surrendered to superior 
forces to save his countrymen. 

And Idealism was shot down because it dared to dream 
greater dreams than were allowed to small nationalities. 

On Easter Monday Sheehy-Skeffington, the pacifist, was mur- 
dered secretly and without trial. 

Thus Peace was shot down by a lunatic, because it got in the 
way of militarism. 

So the bright flag fell from the high place where it had floated 
free. Yet what a tricolour were these three — Labour, Ideal- 
ism, and Pacifism — how proudly it flew, so distinct in its 
colours, so perfect in its union, preaching its lesson for Easter 
to the people! At Easter, the time of Resurrection, not of 
Death. Yet out of Death comes Resurrection. Who will take 
it upon himself to crucify Labour, since Christ was the Son of 
a carpenter; Idealism, for Christ was an idealist; Peace, for 
did not Christ our Lord say " Blessed are the peacemakers, for 
they shall be called the children of God"? 



I 



INTRODUCTION 

THE LION 
T is the lion's chief distinction to be called the 



king of beasts. I do not like the lion. 

He looks magnificent pacing his cage at the 
Zoo, where only have I seen him, but I know him 
for a flesh-eater, his absent gaze and distraught 
air do not denote the philosopher or the thinker, 
his mind is fixed only upon the hours as they pass 
because they are punctuated by blood and bones at 
stated intervals. His loud voice which shakes the 
walls of his den would affright me more did it not 
wake humour in the thought " of all beasts but one 
you make most noise for your size, and that one 
is your little sister the cat." 

The lion is a treacherous beast, you cannot trust 
ii 



INTRODUCTION 

him to play fair, that is why we carry guns when 
we go to meet the lion. Some say the lion can be 
taught, but I do not believe it. The old lion 
does not learn with years. He will kill men in 
age as foolishly as he did when young, he makes 
no distinctions, the little man is as sweet to the 
lion as the big man, indeed, he prefers the smaller 
victim, he will take, too, a child or a woman with- 
out remorse. 

Some say the flesh of man is not good for the 
lion, that it causes dangerous internal disorders. 
I do not know. 

Some say the lion is afraid of the mouse, per- 
haps it is because the courage in so small a thing 
affrights him, if so tiny a beast can carry it before 
him his power is lessened, and courage is so con- 
tagious. 

I have heard tell you can put your head in the 
lion's mouth, but would not advocate it as an 
amusement, sometimes the jaws close and the 

12 



INTRODUCTION 

head is gone, though after all people will say you 
were brave and the world's sympathies will not 
be with the lion. If the lion is the king of beasts 
he feeds only on the flesh of his subjects, if he is in 
a deceitful mood, which is usual to him, he plays 
with them in the manner of his sister the cat, they 
fancy he is offering them freedom when his mood 
is fiercest. 

He feeds chiefly upon the little antelopes and 
gentle does that inhabit foreign lands. He 
crushes also the bones of men; even in his old age 
he does not realise the dreams, the nobility, the 
idealism which he gorges himself upon as he laps 
the blood of his victim. 

Little beasts do not run to the lion asking his 
protection; standing alone in his khaki-coloured 
coat upon his crag he roars the threatened little 
ones to his side pretending love till he devours 
them. 

I do not like the lion — he is the king of beasts. 
13 



SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

HARK! in the still night. Who goes there? 
" Fifteen dead men." Why do they wait? 
"■ Hasten, comrade, death is so fair." 

Now comes their Captain through the dim gate. 

Sixteen dead men ! What on their sword? 

" A nation's honour proud do they bear" 
What on their bent heads? " God's holy word; 

All of their nation's heart blended in prayer" 

Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud? 

u All of their nation' 's love wraps them around" 
Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud? 

" Under the gallows-tree in prison ground" 

Sixteen dead men! Where do they go? 

" To join their regiment, where Sarsfield leads; 
Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know. 

There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds." 

15 



SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

Sixteen dead men! Shall they return? 

" Yea, they shall come again, breath of our 
breath. 
They on our nation's hearth made old fires burn. 
Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their 
death." 



16 



THE SACRED FIRE 

THEY lit a fire within their land that long was 
ashes cold, 
With splendid dreams they made it glow, threw in 

their hearts of gold. 
They saw thy slowly paling cheek and knew thy 

failing breath, 
They bade thee live once more, Kathleen, who 

wert so nigh to death. 
And who dare quench the sacred fire, and who 

dare give them blame, 
Since he who draws too near the glow shall break 

into a flame? 
They lit a beacon in their land, built of the souls 

of men, 
To make thee warm once more, Kathleen, to bid 

thee live again. 



17 



CONSCRIPTION 

THERE is a shadow on the head I love, 
There is a danger lurks thy path upon, 
It murmurs low as coos the mating dove, 
It calls in grey and gathered clouds above, 
For thee, for thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan. 

It hides in seas that beat about thy shores, 
The wind in passing whispers and is gone, 
And the brown leaf no summer will restore, 
Flutters this cry on Winter's russet floor, 
Danger to thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan. 

God of the seas disperse the gathered gloom, 
God of the skies smile her sweet path upon, 
God of the earth this danger swift entomb, 
Slay the wild beast that creeps to bring her doom. 
Save her, save her, Kathleen ni-Houlihan! 



18 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

SICK I am and sorrowful, how can I be well 
again 
Here, where fog and darkness is, and big guns 

boom all day, 
Practising for evil sport? If you speak humanity, 
Hatred comes into each face, and so you cease to 
pray. 

How I dread the sound of guns, hate the bark of 
musketry, 

Since the friends I loved are dead, all stricken by 
the sword. 

Full of anger is my heart, full of rage and misery; 

How can I grow well again, or be my peace re- 
stored? 

If I were in Glenmalure, or in Enniskerry now, 
Hearing of the coming spring in the pine-tree's 
song; 

19 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

If I woke on Arran Strand, dreamt me on the 

cliffs of Moher, 
Could I not grow gay again, should I not be 

strong? 

If I stood with eager heart on the heights of 
Carrantuohill, 

Beaten by the four great winds into hope and joy 
again, 

Far above the cannons' roar or the scream of 
musketry, 

If I heard the four great seas, what were weari- 
ness or pain? 

Were I in a little town, Ballybunnion, Ballybrack, 
Laughing with the children there, I would sing 
and dance once more, 



20 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

Heard again the storm clouds roll hanging over 

Lugnaquilla, 
Built dream castles from the sands of Killiney's 

golden shore. 

If I saw the wild geese fly over the dark lakes of 

Kerry 
Or could hear the secret winds, I could kneel and 

pray. 
But 'tis sick I am and grieving, how can I be well 

again 
Here, where fear and sorrow are — my heart so 

far away? 



21 



IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 

I WISH I were over the Curlew Mountains, 
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen; 
I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield, 
Tramping the rough roads with him and his 
men. 

I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island, 

Watching the camp that the Williamites made; 

I wish that my good gun was pressed to my 
shoulder 
And that my caubeen held the white cockade. 

I wish I were out with " galloping Hogan," 
Happy a guide for my hero to be, 

Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain, 
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee. 

I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen 
In the dark night when the battle began; 
22 



IN THE YEAR OF SARSFIELD 

I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising 
" Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man." 

I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick, 
Holding the breach there and glad in the fight; 

Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange, 
With his troops defeated ready for flight 

Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, there 
Flinging the plank and beam into the wave, 

Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood 
Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave. 

I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon 
With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or drown, 

Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell, 1 
Into the deep had that traitor gone down. 

1 One Brigadier Maxwell, in the Campaign of 1691. 

23 



IN THE YEAR OF SARSFIELD 

I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim 
By the black bog on the side of the hill, 

Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude, 
Failing with Sarsfield meant living still. 



I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across the 
sea, 
Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe; 
Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my heart, 
Knowing from his brave blood heroes would 
grow. 

Ah, had I sailed to far France out of Galway, 
There on the deck the spy Maxwell to see, 

Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me from 
" Tossing the Scotsman right into the sea." 2 

2 Macaulay's " History of England," Ch. XVII. 
24 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER 
BROTHER 

IS there no bond of blood to you, my brother? 
Who have called her ours, the ancient Mother, 
And here we hope to rest from Life's temptation 
Building of souls our patriotic Nation. 

Can we not stand amongst the purple heather 
To find that God we both revere together? 
Beneath this sky can come no bigot preaching 
To fling our lofty dreams to lowly teaching. 

William or James, need we still hate each other 
For their dead sakes, my Irish-hearted brother? 
Can we not pray without fear of dissension 
" God save our land " with but the same inten- 
tion? 

If we from Derry walls were flung defeated, 
And you from Limerick town in speed retreated, 

25 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

One God is ours no matter what religion, 
One land we love and shall not have division. 

Shall we divide? Ah, better take the token 
Of Ireland's luck and leave the shamrock broken 
Of one green leaf, when four brought joy upon it, 
As Ulster lost — from Munster, Leinster, Con- 
nacht. 

But Ulster lost with each green sod still crying 
For those dear dead who left us dreams undying 
Of Ireland's needs, O'Neill whose heart took fire 
And joined the sacred flames of Hugh Maguire. 

Shall we not cry " Lamh Dearg abu " and glory 
In Cromwell's fall, in reading Clonmel's story, 
Or by the " Yellow Ford " who cheered most 

loudly 
As hand from hand we passed the same flag 

proudly? 

26 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

Yea, we have gone with joyous hearts to follow 
Men of your thought by mountain, hill and hollow, 
Died for them, lived again, loved down the ages 
To bless them yet upon historic pages. 



Emmet and Tone ! Ah, half our pride uprooted, 
We were but dead if we such names refuted, 
Our welkbeloved, dear brothers of our Sireland, 
We call with them " For God and Holy Ireland." 

And do we mourn our Owen Roe less sadly, 

Or hold Lord Edward's claim more loved or 

gladly, 
Because of " popish " ways of Owen's praying, 
Or Edward went to other altars straying? 

Do we forget or could our fond faith slacken 
A patriot's glow in owning Joy MacCracken, 

27 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

Who Belfast-born has helped the island's story 
And shed from Antrim's hills a sunrise glory. 

Mitchel or Meagher ! Ah, hear the dear names 

falling 
On no deaf ears, we welcome to you calling, 
" O dead long gone, O dead of recent slaying, 
From your chill hands we take the banner, pray- 

ing." 

Where this dear land forbids us to forsake her, 
Join with the one sweet voice to the same Maker, 
" Our hate is one, our love is one the other, 
Lead on! or follow, O my Irish brother." 



28 



THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 



OME on the pleasant hillside have thought 
they saw thee pass, 



s 

As flings a cloud before the sun a shadow on the 
grass. 

They praised thy fairness and held dear thy meek- 
ness and thy grace; 

They only saw thy shade, Kathleen, they did not 
see thy face. 



Some on the purple mountains stood to see thee 

speeding by, 
As glides a sudden golden shaft across a stormy 

sky; 
And these were braggarts of their love within 

thy dwelling-place; 
They saw thy beauty, Rosin Dubh, they did not 

see thy face. 



29 



THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 

But some in flames of battle strove their slender 

weight to throw 
Against the bayonet and the gun that hid thy only 

foe; 
They left for thee their earthly loves, these heroes 

of thy race, 
And died, as all must die, Kathleen, who once 

have seen thy face. 

So must thy grief be ever new who holds a love 
like this, 

That -thrusts away a dear one's heart, a little 
child's soft kiss, 

That leaves behind an honoured home, a Moth- 
er's fond embrace, 

Till others seek again; Kathleen, to see thy hidden 
face. 



30 



THE WILD BEAST 

ONE spring as I went walking 
By budding leaf and thorn 
To see the sun a-shining 

Upon an Easter morn; 
My hound she gambolled by me, 

Oft hunting in her play 
Some small thing in the hedges 

She found upon her way, 
How splendid was her going 

How happy was her joy, 
I felt I could not chide her 

Nor dared her play destroy. 

Yet oft I called " Come hither, 
I fear lest thou displace 

Some hidden beast or reptile 
All savage for the chase.' , 

I scarce had spoken to her 
And turned again for town 
3i 



THE WILD BEAST 

When we were in the shadows 

And fog and mist came down. 
When -from the gloom and darkness 

Some lion voice did roar; 
He sprung upon our pathway 

To stand our road before. 
I cried in vain contention, 

" O, let us go way," 
But to our further progress 

The red cat stood at bay. 
My hound would not obey me 

So brave and fine was she 
But sprang upon the wild beast 

To fight for liberty. 

Oh, how my heart was beating 

So full of grief and fear 
At thunder of the battle 

That fell upon my ear. 
32 



THE WILD BEAST 

Oh, great and splendid fighting 

Like to the times of Fionn, 
Alas ! uneven chances, 

My dear one could not win; 
And sudden to a silence 

I opened eyes of pain, 
With face towards her foe still 

My faithful hound was slain. 

But she has left behind her 

A pup of splendid race, 
And he shall bound before me 

And take the other's place* 
So I can go a-walking 

'Mid budding leaf and thorn 
To see the sun a-rising 

Upon an Easter morn. 



33 



THE WILD GEESE 

" Wild geese are very numerous in this district, especially 
around Lough Esknahinny." — Cork Examiner, December 12, 
1916. 

I WALKED by Esknahinny at the waning of 
the moon, 
As star by star came peeping to some celestial 

tune. 
The little waves crept to me to call and fall away, 
O lone I was and lonesome to meet the breaking 
day. 



I heard wind voices whisper and leaned to hear 

them speak; 
I saw the moving shadows — and feared to turn 

and seek. 
The slender reeds were shaking between me and 

the light, 
And loneliness fell from me with the treasure of 

the night. 

34 



THE WILD GEESE 

I heard dark wings flap by me towards the rising 

sun, 
Dear birds so swift in passing I blessed them 

every one. 
The wild geese had come back again, they passed 

me in the night. 
Between me and the waning moon I watched them 

in their flight. 

I had walked the paths of Kerry and dared not 

say the word; 
I had trod the roads of Leinster all broken by the 

sword. 
O Ulster, Munster, Connacht, He gave Who can 

restore, 
The Wild Geese, the Wild Geese, they have come 

home once more. 



35 



THE QUEEN 

I SAW her many years ago, my gladness and 
my grief. 
She stood amongst the barley fields to bind 

the wayward sheaf. 
She walked upon the mountain's side to draw the 

brown turf home, 
She planted many famine crops within the peaty 

loam. 
From rugged rocks and silver shore she gathered 

grey sloakeen. 
She made the green earth brown again, and made 

the brown earth green. 
She wearied in those striving years from morning 

until night. 
Her fields grew wide, her stately home shone in 

the morning light. 
But O, those hours of yesterday, mo storeen and 

mo crie, 



36 



THE QUEEN 

I saw her turn her face away to hide her grief 
from me. 

I flew to her a while ago, my thousand joys — so 

dear; 
For ruin fell upon her house and I was full of 

fear. 
I saw wild fury seize her home, I heard a red 

wind scream, 
I saw the groaning roof-tree fall, the flame on 

wall and beam. 
I fell upon the broken way, struck down by chill 

despair: 
" My life's long love, my only joy, my dear be- 
yond compare, 
A thousand souls will bleed with mine, a thousand 

hearts expire, 
To see so fair a form as thine upon a martyr's 

fire." 

37 



THE QUEEN 

From out the glow, from out the flame, from ruin 

fierce and wild, 
I saw her come with dancing feet and glad face 

like a child, 
Her red-gold hair, her snow-white brow, her gown 

of silken green: 
Out through the ruins of her home, she walked as 

would a queen. 
Ni Houlihan, Ni Houlihan, she came a splendid 

queen. 



38 



THE CHOICE 

THIS Consul Casement — he who heard the 
cry 
Of stricken people — and who in his fight 
To lift the torture load from broken men, 
And shield sad women from eternal night, 
Went through lone, hot, and fevered foreign 
lands. 

For doomed Casement, slaves that he raised up 
Pray with strong voices, so a wide world hears. 
Men saved from anguish, women saved from 

shame, 
He dried your children's tears! 
He gave you life — for him lift pleading hands. 

Sir Roger Casement, honoured for his years 
Of stress and struggle, of fatigue and work, 
What is the claim of his frail human needs 

39 



THE CHOICE 

For arduous hours he did not shun nor shirk, 
A King's reward, a royal friendliness! 

For honoured Casement titles and renown, 
A future great with promise, all life's page 
Writ in gold letters, and a path so soft 
One could not hear the coming of old age 
To point an honoured tomb that nations bless. 

Ah! Irish Casement, in the roar of war 

That stung his blood and whipped his manhood's 

fire. 
What did he hear upon red shaken earth, 
Where little nations struggle and expire? 
Some banshee cry upon the hot wind thrills ! 

And Roger Casement — he who freed the slave, 
Made sad babes smile and tortured women hope, 

40 



THE CHOICE 

Flung all aside, King's honours and great years, 
To take for finis here a hempen rope, 
And banshee cries upon far Irish hills. 



4i 



THE OLD SONG 

WHEN I was a young lad of happy sixteen 
There came to my window the Cushla-mo 
chree, 
And the song that she sang was the song of the 

wind, 
And the song that she sang was the song of the 
sea. 



" And will you come with me, a vie and a stor? 
And will you come with me, alanna? " she cried, 
" O, my father will rage and my mother will 

mourn, 
If I take to the mountains to march by your side." 



" O, your father must rage and your mother must 

sigh, 
But I bid you follow and I am your queen." 

42 



THE OLD SONG 

O, I stole from my window I held her so dear, 
And I followed the wave of her garments of 
green. 

My father did rage and my mother did sigh, 
" Your way will be hard and your heart it will 

break, 
Your feet will grow weary, your cheek will be 

pale, 
If you go to the mountains for Grannia Wad's 

sake." 

My years waned in prison, my rough bed was 

hard, 
When I was a freeman my blood it was cold : 
I met her, my true-love ; I made her my wife : 
O, home-weary was I because I grew old! 



43 



THE OLD SONG 

O, the years flew in passing in peace and in rest, 
And I watched my young son as he leaped and he 

ran, 
O, proud was my heart as I dreamed me a dream, 
I would wed him to fortune when he grew a man. 

But when I was dreaming one eve in my chair 
There came to the window the song of the sea, 
The song of the mountains, the song of the wind, 
And my son rose and answered, " Who calls upon 
me?" 



" My son, if you listen your mother will mourn, 
Your father will rage, and your cheek will grow 

pale, 
Your wife will be grieving, your child weep alone, 
If you follow the singing of poor Grannia Wael." 



44 



THE OLD SONG 

As he would not hear me his mother did mourn, 
His child wearied for him, his wife's cheek grew 

pale, 
He was shot without pity at dawn of the day, 
And the last words he spoke were, " God bless 
Grannia Wael." 



My grandchild is troubled, he calls from his sleep, 
" Ah, Gran'father, Gran'father, what does she 

say?" 
" O, little one, little one, rest you secure, 
The wind on the window it calls in its play. 



11 O, little one, little one, hush you and sleep, 
'Tis the song of the wind and the cry of the sea." 
" O, gran'father, gran'father, when may I go? 
'Tis the voice of poor Grannia Wael calling to 



45 



THE OLD SONG 

" O, your path will be rough and your prison bed 

hard, 
Your heart will be broken, your cheek will grow 

pale, 
You will die on the gallows when life is yet young, 
If you list to the singing of old Grannia Wael." 

" My path may be rough and my prison bed hard, 
But my heart will be glad and my soul shall not 

quail, 
I shall die on«the gallows with joy and with pride, 
And «my last breath shall whisper, 4 God bless 

Grannia Wael.' " 



4 6 



w 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

ITH a knock upon the window comes the 
young volunteer, 

'Tis his step upon the threshold; " what is it brings 
you here? " 

" Oh, will you up and follow, swift as the homing 
swallow, 

By mountain hill and hollow? " said the young 
volunteer. 

Said the brave volunteer, said the loved volunteer, 

" Oh, will you up and follow with the true volun- 
teer?" 



Oh, I will not rise and follow with the young 

volunteer, 
With my pockets full of money and my house so 

full of cheer. 
Why should I go a tramping, with cold and windy 

camping, 

47 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

On all my pleasures stamping with the young vol- 
unteer? 

With this wild volunteer, with this strange volun- 
teer, 

Why should I go a tramping with this young vol- 
unteer? 



With a knock upon your window comes the young 

volunteer, 
'Tis his step upon the threshold, what is it brings 

him here? 
" Oh, rise and march together, in shine or stormy 

weather, 
With hopes you cannot tether," said the young 

volunteer. 
Said the brave volunteer, said the loved volunteer, 
" Will you up and march together? " said the true 

volunteer. 

48 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

Yea, I will rise and follow with the young volun- 
teer, 

And open is my doorway, oh, welcome is he here. 

Yea, I will go a drilling, how gladly and how 
willing, 

With all my pulses thrilling, for the young vol- 
unteer, 

With the brave volunteer, with the loved volun- 
teer, 

Oh, gladly go a drilling with the true volunteer. 

Oh, fool, to rise and follow with the young vol- 
unteer, 

Content we were and happy till he came calling 
here. 

Thus all our prospects 'blighting, what is the use 
of fighting? 

We go with foe uniting, not with this volunteer, 



49 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

Oh, this false volunteer, oh, this mad volunteer, 
All our placid progress blighting comes this wild 
volunteer. 

Oh, since you will not follow with this young 
volunteer, 

To fight for home and freedom, what are you 
doing here? 

Why were you still delaying, thus your mother- 
land betraying, 

While he rose her voice obeying did the young 
volunteer, 

Did the true volunteer, did the loved volunteer, 

While you were still delaying died the brave 
volunteer. 

'Tis a ghost and but the shadow of a young vol- 
unteer, 

He is dead and stilly sleeping, what should be 
haunting here? 

50 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

'Tis but the storm winds flutter old dreams you 
dare not utter 

And false the hopes they mutter, and pale the 
volunteer, 

'Tis a dream volunteer, yea, a dead volunteer, 

Old leaves that fly and flutter round a dead vol- 
unteer. 

Oh, be he ghost or shadow of a lost volunteer, 
Though sad this heart and grieving, still welcome 

is he here, 
The greater his recruiting, who fell from cow- 
ardly shooting, 
I stand to him saluti-ng, oh, my brave volunteer. 
Oh, the dear volunteer, oh, this true volunteer, 
All the greater the recruiting of this dead volun- 
teer. 



51 



THE TREE UPROOTED 

[IN MEMORY] 

THE earth-bound giant now is free, is free ; 
The last fight over, and the last moan still; 
No tale of snow-clad heights where great dreams 

be, 
His exile heart can thrill. 

Ah ! how he cried with groaning branch and bough, 
For that far land beyond the sunshine morn, 
For that lost joy tilled earth will not allow, 
That land where he was born. 

Ah! how his heart that fought for freedom pined; 
His leaves, like restless fingers, tried to hold 
The trailing garments of the passing wind, 
His struggle manifold. 

The four winds heard and strove with mighty 

hands 
To bear him back to that far northern height 

52 



THE TREE UPROOTED 

Where he was born; loosed from his earthly 

bonds, 
He poised, a moment's flight. 

Then to the wind in passionate embrace 

His branches moved — out sung his parting 

breath. 
He leaned to freedom from his prison place, 
Whose freedom was but death. 

Better so lie, from this dire bondage free, 
O ! heart, who knew the silence of the snows, 
Than stand alone, O solitary tree! 
Where English greenwood grows. 

Better to die than live in dull disgrace, 
O ! soul that dreamed the glory of the dream; 
To be for sparrows but a resting place, 
Who heard the eagle scream. 

53 



THE WREATH 

[easter, 19 17] 

HERE on my path by some hard fate struck 
down, 
When life at last held out full hands to me. 
When the great dreams of younger years awoke 
And dear, dead voices whispered " Liberty." 
Ah, cruel blow, from which I stricken rise 
And blindly stagger for that path again, 
To wonder if 'tis worth the striving now, 
Thus robbed upon life's highway and half slain. 

Here I awoke to fear again the dead, 
Whose tender faces held me as I slept. 
Ah, well I knew whojeaned above me there, 
Into whose arms so pitifully I crept. 
And I awoke, for Spring did cry, " Arise, 
For birds within the green woods carol clear." 
Then Easter came with wreath of lilies pale, 
Placed on my heart the grief of yester-year. 

54 



THE PRISONER 

ALL day I lie beneath the great pine tree, 
Whose perfumed branches wave and 

shadow me. 
I hear the groaning of its straining heart 
As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part 
Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined; 
I hear it whisper to the sighing wind, 
" What of the mountain peaks, where I was 

born?" 
As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn. 



I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly, 
Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept 

sky. 
Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone, 
How swift the flight by joy and hope led on. 

II What of the mountain land where I was born? " 
I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn, 

55 



THE PRISONER 

Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad 

hill, 
And give no thought for one imprisoned still. 

All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree, 
Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me, 
Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the grave, 
In helpless fashion feel its wild heart rave. 
11 Free, set free," I hear its moaning breath, 
Where liberty means naught, alas, but death. 
Ah, freedom is but death. 



56 



OURSELVES ALONE 

ONE morning, when dreaming in deep medi- 
tation, 

I met a sweet colleen a-making her moan. 
With sighing and sobbing she cried and lamented; 
" Oh where is my lost one, and where has he 

flown? 

II My house it is small, and my field is but little, 
Yet round flew my wheel as I sat in the sun, 

He crossed the deep sea and went forth for my 

battle : 
Oh, has he proved faithless — the fight is not 

won? " 

And then I said: "Kathleen, ah! do you remem- 
ber 

When you were a queen, and your castles were 
strong, 

You cried for the love of a cold-hearted stranger, 

And in your fair island you planted the wrong? 

57 



OURSELVES ALONE 

" And oh," I cried, " Kathleen, I once heard you 

weeping 
And sighing'and sobbing and making your moan. 
You sang of a lost one, a dear one, a false one — 
* Oh, gone is my blackbird, and where has he 

flown?' 

"Ah! many came forth to the sound of your 

crying, 
And fought down the years for the freedom you 

pined. 
How many lie still, in their cold exile sleeping, 
Who sought in far lands your lost blackbird to 

find? 

" And many are caught in the net of the stranger, 
And all but forgotten the sound of your name, 
For other loves call them to help and to save 

them : 
They fell to dishonour — we hold them in shame. 

58 



OURSELVES ALONE 

" Oh, why drive me forth from your hearth into 

exile 
And into far dangers? Your house is my own. 
Faithful I serve, as I ever did serve you, 
Standing together, ourselves — and alone." 



59 



KATHLEEN'S LOVER 

1 WOULD I had a thousand tongues 
To sing thy praise, to sing thy praise, 
I'd teach the birds on ev'ry tree 
To chorus the sweet melody, 
For all my days, for all my days. 
I wish I had a thousand tongues 
To curse thy foe, to curse thy foe, 
I'd pray each stormy wind and wave 
His house to break, his ship to stave, 
To lay him low, to lay him low. 

I wish I had a thousands hearts 
To love thee more, to love thee more, 
Lest one should break before thy tears 
Let others come to hush thy fears 
And thee adore, and thee adore. 
I wish I had a thousand hearts 
To hate thy foe, to hate thy foe. 
Lest one should dare in pity turn 
60 



KATHLEEN'S LOVER 

Let others still with vengance burn 
To lay him low, to lay him low. 

I wish I had a thousand hands 

To work for thee, to work for thee, 

To bring thee fairest fruit and flower, 

To pluck for thee God's golden hour, 

To set thee free, to set thee free. 

I wish I had a thousand hands 

To strike thy foe, to strike thy foe, 

I'd track him without rest or sleep, 

My arm were strong, my thrust were deep 

To lay him low, to lay him low. 

I wish I had a thousand lives 
For thee to live, for thee to live. 
In foreign lands in ev'ry state 
My days, my years, to make thee great 
I'd freely give, so freely give. 
61 



KATHLEEN'S LOVER 

I wish I had a thousand lives 
To thee to fly, to thee to fly; 
To praise, to strive, to fight, to fall, 
And on thy name and God to call, 
For thee to live, for thee to live. 



62 



THE FOE 

MY foe did strike me, Lord, I am not meek, 
I cannot turn to him the other cheek, 
Rather to Thee for vengeance do I cry, 
Tooth for a tooth, dear Lord, eye for an eye. 

Had he but felled me, giving blow for blow, 
My rage had little flame, my hate were slow, 
I could forgive stood he to me alone, 
But through those dearer souls he reached my 
own. 

Oh, brave heads slain, grey locked and darkly 

brown, 
I saw you bleed beneath the martyr's crown, 
Dear eyes that closed on unfulfilled desire, 
I saw you robbed of your celestial fire. 

Pale lips that cried one prayer in parting breath, 
I knew you dumb in silence and in death. 

63 



THE FOE • 

My foe hath struck me, Lord, I am not meek, 
I cannot turn to him the other cheek. 



64 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

SOMEHOW I never liked you, John, your 
ways were crude: 
Your smile was pharisaical, your manners rude; 
Although you prospered well in wordly things, 
Ay, were on nodding terms with Czars and Kings, 
I seem to see the counter and the store, 
And all the shopman's manners learnt before 
You donned the regal robes of finer folk, 
And in your brain the strong desire awoke 
To play the master where you were the man, — 
Plain Hodge, make blue the plebeian blood that 

ran 
To warm the grocer of those early days, 
Who sanded sugar and who mixed his tea 
Before he bowed in Sunday sanctity, 
With that lank Scotsman who your partner was. 
Ah, no, I never liked you, John, because 
You were a braggart and a pharisee, 
Held many slaves, yet prated " Liberty. 5 ' 

65 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

Your sweated people toiled to make you great, 
Swept out your store and laboured long and 

late._ 
Their pay was poor, their faces lined with care, 
Of all good things you took the lion's share. 
In foreign lands, half naked, they slaved on 
To gather gold to heap your plate upon; 
You'd swagger past, proud of their dull amaze, 
In Royal purple, eager for all praise. 

Oh, long ago, when you were yet a boy, 
You always took the other children's toy; 
And you were best at playing games of bluff, 
And no one liked you, John; your ways were 

rough. 
I well remember Kate, who lived next door, 
Her pretty eyes and snowy pinafore, 
Which oft you would mud-spatter and then call: 
" Oh, see the dirty girl," to one and all. 

66 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

A jealous and a greedy boy you were, 
And loved to make a spectacle of her, 
Because she never liked you, John, since you 
To her sweet garden forced your rough way 

through. 
She heard you beg: "Oh, Father, let me go; 
I'll teach her how to make the white flowers 

grow." 
And always since I hear the same old cry: 
" There's none so good, so fine, so brave as I." 
Ay, even when I roam to some far spot 
'Neath Eastern skies, by world and time forgot, 
I see the dusky people creeping by, 
Alarmed to hear your shout of " I, I, I." 
" I'll show them how, I'll tell them what, and 

why; 
I'll bid them how to live, and how to die." 
And when I, yawning, seek some further shore, 
Some Indian strand, I hear your voice once more : 

6 7 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

" I'll teach them how to work, and how to pray." 
Oh, John, you never think before your day 
Rome was, Greece was — can one believe it 

true ? — 
Great Egypt died, and never heard of you! 

How all the small folk hated you, big John ! 
As you grew fat their little pastures on; 
And yet they quailed before you, or your state, 
And walked behind you — all save little Kate ! 
She could not tame you with her gentle ways 
Yet her right anger filled you with amaze. 
When she would face you, giving jeer for jeer, 
You struck her down, and laughed to see her tear. 
With her great heart for pity not too strong, 
Yet not too weak for anger at the wrong 
You loved to plague her with, as when a child 
You gave her grief if e'er you thought she smiled. 
You snatched her flag, her gun, her little ships — 

68 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

The very bread that touched her parted lips! 
Her pretty chainey and her shining glass, 
And all that took your greedy eyes, alas ! 
Then with rough promise sought to still her cry, 
And named her " Vixen " to the passer-by. 
Ah, with what care a seething pot you'd brew 
A bitter draught none mixed so well as you; 
You'd force her take, so, weakened, you might 

cry: 
" She's ne'er contented, yet how good am I." 

The little Church wherein she loved to tell 

Her pretty beads, I do remember well, 

How you would push her out, and there would 

stay, 
With eyes uplifted, as you seemed to pray — 
Ah! when, indeed, I most mistrusted you 
Was when you prayed, whose Trinity I knew 
The scrubbing brush, the belly, and the purse, 

6 9 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

All badly served. Your cleanliness a curse 

Of little minds, that have no thoughts to fill 

The chambers of their brain, and have no will 

But service to the petty things of life, 

Destroy sweet Calm with their incessant strife, 

Cleaning, yet never clean, they ever seek 

To whiten sepulchres. Your table rude 

With all its ill-prepared and heavy food 

To feed your dull yet eager appetite. 

Your purse well filled can shrink or can expand 

To thirty silver pieces to your hand. 



Yet, John, I must admit in many ways 
You have your virtues not devoid of praise. 
Could I forget sweet Kate who lived next door, 
With sweetest eyes and snowy pinafore. 
She was of finer clay — a child of dreams 
Who knew the secret songs of hills and streams. 
Made from the passions of the four great seas, 

70 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

Lithe as the swaying of the storm-swept trees, 
Sweet as the heather-bell on moorland height, 
Blue were her eyes, her hair a clouding night. 
What knew you, Hodge, of such a one as this, 
Whose lips were lewd and had a ploughman's 

kiss? 
She'll never love you, John, howe'er you smile — 
A sour grimace that hides the deeper guile. 
Too often you her tender heart betrayed 
For her at last to listen unafraid 
Of some new plan to strike her down again, 
To break her heart in plotting for your gain. 
Yes, as I love her, John, I you despise 
And loathe you for the sorrow in her eyes. 
Ah, no, we'll never like you, Hodge, your ways 

are crude, 
Your smile is pharisaical, your manners rude. 



7i 



LOUD SHOUT THE FLAMING 
TONGUES OF WAR 

TA'N SIONAC AR SRAIDIB AG FAIRE GO CAOCRAC 

Air — " The West's asleep." 

LOUD shout the flaming tongues of war. 
The cannon's thunder rolls afar 
While Empires tremble for their fall. 
Thou art alone amongst them all. 
Where is the friend who for thy sake 
Will on his sword thy freedom take? 
The son who holds thy right alone 
Above an Empire or a throne? 

Ah, Grannia Wael, thy stricken head 
Is bowed in sorrow o'er thy dead, 
Thy dead who for love of thee 
Not for some foreign liberty. 
Shall we betray when hope is near, 
Our Motherland whom we hold dear, 
72 



FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR 

To go to fight on foreign strand, 
For foreign rights and foreign land? 

The Lion's fangs have sought to kill 

A Nation's soul, a Nation's will; 

From tooth and claw thy wounded breast 

Has held them safe, has held them blest 

About thy head great eagles are, 

They fly with scream and storm of war, 

Their shadows fall, we do not know 

If they be friend, — if they be foe. 

For Lion's roar we have no fears, 

We fought him down the restless years. 

We watch the Eagles in the sky, 

Lest they should land — or pass us by. 

But, yet beware ! the Lion goes 
To strike our friends — to charm our foes. 
By hamlet small, by hill and dale 
The creeping foe is on our trail; 
73 



FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR 

His face is kind, his voice is bland, 
He prates of faith and fatherland; 
Shall we go forth to do and die 
For Belgium's tear, and Serbia's sigh? 
Oh, Volunteers, through field and town 
He seeks his prey, he tracks thee down; 
His voice is soft, his words are fair, 
It is the creeping foe, Beware! 

Ah, Grannia Wael, in blood and tears 

We fought thy battles through the years, 

That thou shouldst live we're glad to die 

In prison cell or gallows high. 

Oh, cursed be he ! who to our shame 

Drives forth thy manhood in thy name, 

O, WHILE THE LION LAPS OUR 

BLOOD 
SHALL WE UNITE IN SERVITUDE. 



74 



THE HILL-SIDE MEN 

OWERE my heart a little dog 
I'd call it to my side 
To hold it with a silken lead 
And would not be denied. 

For O it wandered far from me 

By mountain, vale and glen, 

How glad it marched the weary miles 

Amongst the hill-side men ! 

Ah, were my heart a singing bird 
I would not let it free, 
It dare not dream of sunrise skies, 
Or chant of liberty. 

For, ah! it sprang cloud high to sing 
From mountain, vale, and fen, 
When first it heard the secret drums, 
The hearts of hill-side men. 

IS 



THE HILL-SIDE MEN 

My hopes are lost, my dreams are fled; 
How lone are vale and fen ! 
My heart lies cold within the grave 
That holds the hill-side men. 



7 6 



THE STAR 

[IN MEMORIAM P. P.] 

I SAW a dreamer, I saw a poet, 
On the red battle-field fell my slow tear, 
" Lover of birds and flowers, singer of gentle 

songs, 
Dying with men of war, what do you here? " 
Languid his closing eyes looked to the breaking 

dawn 
Where the young day peeped out through prison 

bars, 
" I on a high hill stood singing a dear old song, 
I fell to earth," he sighed, " grasping at stars." 

He laid him softly down, cold was his paling 

cheek, 
Silent and chill he grew as the dead are, 
But from his folded hands on to the crimson earth 
Glowing and shimmering fell a great star. 
Out of the heavens there came a hand raising it, 

77 



THE STAR 

Set it in the green sky for all to see, 

There it shone purely bright, faithful as planets 

shine, - 
There it sung loud and sweet " Come, follow me." 



78 



" TELLING THE BEES " 

THIS is the son of the white morning singing, 
Combing her silken hair's simmer of gold, 
All of her slenderness wrapped in a gossamer 
Green of the dawning sky, dear to behold. 

" When the lime is in blossom the bees are busy, 
Summer has come with her honey-sweet mouth; 

The lime is in bloom and the hive it is silent, 
Come little bees from the North and the South ! 

" Gather your store when the red sun is shining, 
Gather the harvest so that you may feast, 

The hive is nigh empty, the Queen she is weeping, 
Come little bees from the West and the East." 

I saw one go in the pale of the dawning, 
In a fair May-time a-telling the bees, 

Tapping the hive there she told of men dying, 
Many a dear name she called to the breeze. 
79 



" TELLING THE BEES " 

They are coming, the bees, for the time is in 
blossom ; 
They are- coming, the bees, from the West, 
South, and East; 
They hum " donas Sasan," they hum " Sonas 

Eireann, 
We gather the honey, prepare for the feast." 



80 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

BEFORE my time my kindred were 
As felons in their land, 
Because they claimed the liberty 
That freemen understand. 

Ere I was born in Dublin town 
Men's hearts were still aflame; 

They spoke of Allen and O'Brien, 
And whispered Larkin's name. 

When I slept on my mother's breast, 

A little babe, and frail, 
Young Duffy's hearse went slowly by: 

He died in Milbank Jail. 

When I could read, I spelt and knew 

The lives of patriot men; 
When I could write, my pencil traced — 

" A Nation Once Again." 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

I learnt of those who often knew 

The baton and the cell, 
Who asked for right by peaceful means ■ 

O'Connell to Parnell. 

And once when thro 1 the cheering streets 
Some " felon " homeward came 

I lit, amongst the gayer lights, 
My candle's tiny flame. 

When I was but a little child 

I ran by Kickham's side; 
I heard his bitter story told 

In reverence and pride. 

And when with years he passed away, 
When life was young and fair, 

I stood upon time's crowded path, 
And met O'Leary there. 
82 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

I saw with pity and amaze 

A craven party go, 
Obedient to a Scotsman's word, 

For Parnell's overthrow. 

Before Kilmainham's bloodstained walls 

I stood all cold and still; 
I lived through all the awful night 

That shadowed Pentonville. 

If thus o'er one life's blotted page 
Some neutral soul should bend, 

He'll read to-day — as yesterday — 
The story without end. 



83 



THE DEAD SOLDIER 

Where the sword has opened the way the man will jollow 

44 T OOK! they came, the triumphant army! 

1 J Over yon hill see their weapons peeping! " 
Still I spoke not but my wheel sent turning, 
I closed my eyes for my heart was weeping, 
My heart was weeping for a dead soldier. 

Who is he who looks towards me? 

" 'Tis no man but a gay flag flying." . 

Red was his mouth and his white brow thoughtful, 

Blue his eyes — how my soul is crying, 

My soul is crying for a dead soldier. 

" Kneel ye down, lest your eyes should dare them, 
Kneel ye down and your beads be saying." 
" Lord, on their heads Thy wrath deliver," 
This is the prayer that my lips are praying, 
My heart is praying for a dead soldier. 



8 4 



THE DEAD SOLDIER 

" Best cheer the path of the men victorious, 
For he is dead and his blade lies broken, 
His march is far where no aid can follow, 
And for his people he left no token, 
He left no token, the dead soldier." 

The way of the sword a man can follow, 
See the young child with his gold hair gleaming. 
When falls the oak must the acorn perish? 
He lifts the blade and his eyes are dreaming, 
He dreams the dream of the dead soldier. 



THE END 



85 



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